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Ch. 4: He who comes to claiming claim it
Back to Arheled Forest lay on his bed, gazing at the Hammer that reposed across the top of his burearu. They had decided after some argument to keep it in the house of Forest; the Dragons would expect it to be in the fortified Lane house. Hunter Light was talking about going to the nursery, and Mrs. Lake was exclaiming that bush-sized winterberries and hollies cost over fifty apiece, and he wanted how many? Forest listened in mounting dismay. They apparently couldn’t afford the protection they so direly needed. He had gone outside. It was a cloudy day, boding rain. He looked around upon the island. A green light mounted in his eyes. The island quivered. With a queer rustling sigh leaves unfolded out of the earth. Sharp, broad, glossy-green leaves dark as laurels mingled with deep purple-green leaves long as a willow’s. Small red berries clustered thickly. Hunter Light came outside and stopped in his tracks. All along the shore of the Island, even along the edge of the parking lot and drive right up to the bridge, there now stood a towering hedge of close-set hollies, winterberry paler among them. Forest stalked along them, his eyes smouldering green as he silently commanded them to be neat and trimmed. Now he lay upstairs, tired from the sudden discovery of his new power to directly generate living plants, gazing at the Hammer. In a short while he should get up and go out and paint into existence the marker-stones; Grandmother Lane had told him how to make them. As he made the R- runes he had to say aloud, “In the name of the Road no enemy shall pass.” They had to be no farther than twenty feet, but could be as close as three. But he wanted to rest. The Hammer seemed forged of gold, or of a metal like it. The pommel was fashioned like a crowned head, with sad stern eyes of some dark gemstone and flowing hair bulging outward like the head of an anchor at the sides. His braided hair formed the grip, opening out into great curls framing stars of brilliant silver or of carved white diamond, dark green emeralds surrounding them. The ponderous head was two-ended like a sledge, thick but curving so that its’ flat ends had the shape of broad toeless feet. A deep notch cleft the upper side. Coiled intricately about the head on either side was a long serpentine dragon, its’ scales tiny but crafted with such detail that no matter how close he peered (and, he suspected, even with a magnifying-glass) he could still make out scales on even the smallest bit of anatomy. Four-pointed stars gleamed out among the coils. Its’ ragged head, cloven by a fell smile, adorned the great bulge in the center of the head where it met the handle. Around the edge of the flat ends, and in a band down the top and bottom of the head, was a long border of silver graven with runes—Norse runes and Angerthas, mingled and patterned, forming words that even when translated seemed too terrible to pronounce: for they were words of power, written in the fearsome speech of the Gods themselves. The hue of the gold was not the same either; for in the king’s beard it was a reddish gold, but yellow elsewhere; while the dragon was more of a greenish, like gold seen through deep water. It was not very large, either; the handle was perhaps two and a half feet long, the head another foot, thick as a narrow log. It was also very light: Forest could heft it with ease in both hands. It seemed solid and ordinary, now; an elaborately carved artifact, like a brass statue in a museum, inert and dead. The dragon made him shudder faintly: the gleam in the tiny gem-eyes was too sinister for his taste. Midgarth, Hunter was sure it was; the dim deep dragon coiled all through the earth’s oceans, encircling the globe, doom of Thor. “And as far as that goes,” he had said, “the earth is actually encircled by a single linked ocean, mingling at Artic and Antarctic. Because of tectonic action every ocean basin has a mid-ocean ridge, a range of seabed mountains all linked that do encircle the world.” “How do they form?” Forest had asked. “Well, the continents moved apart, you know; before they were all one piece. The seafloor formed from lava exposed by plates moving away from each other. As the ages passed it moved more slowly, so that lava had time to erupt and build up, and this caused the mid-ocean ridges.” “But then that invalidates the island-chain explanation, you know, that islands formed from irruptions of a single hot spot as the plate moved farther away.” “What?” Hunter had said. Forest had said the next part really jumbled-up and had to repeat it a few times before Dad got it. “Well, if the seafloor formed from lava flows as plates moved apart, that means they once moved very fast. If they moved very fast, there wouldn’t be time for islands to be built up from undersea eruptions because the plate would leave the hot spot behind. If the plate then moved slowly enough to build the ridges, the islands should be as close together as the ridges’ segments are, right? I think those islands either pre-existed tectonic action or erupted much faster than anyone seems to think.” “Surtsey Island.” Hunter had muttered. “Yes. There we saw processes we thought took ages, take weeks. You have a point, kid.” Forest yawned. After a brief cold snap the weather had suddenly gotten balmy, 60s with hot sun. Bell had actually jumped in the lake this lunchtime. She then screamed and jumped out because it was so cold and ran inside to towel off. She explained to Forest that Brooke had dared her. Brooke stopped over on the last day of the wacky warm spell. Her and Bell dared each other into the water a few times, then went inside to change. Forest was painting the boundary stones into existence and took no heed, except to shake his head and smile to himself. Brooke came out alone and sat down next to him. “Anyone seen Ronnie lately?” she said abruptly. “He’s probably still at Arheled’s.” Brooke gave a little half-laugh. “Funny, how it’s only when he’s not around you suddenly need him.” she said. “What did that pattern on the grapevine look like?” “Three dents.” said Forest. He painted a zaggedly line in the air with three V-like kinks. “I thought so.” said Brooke. “Remember how he guessed it matched the pattern in a rock? Well, I found the rock.” Forest lowered his brush and stared at her. “It’s up in the Nanto Nenlë. Valley of Voices. I was—well,” she glanced sideways at Forest, giggled and got a little pink, “the river piles up huge heaps of this gorgeous sudsy foam, so I jumped in and soaped it all over me. It feel so slick and lovely. Anyway, I was drying off and I looked up, and across the river is a medium boulder with wiggly folds, and do you know, they matched that pattern exactly. What was that supposed to mark, again?” “A lost cannon, I think.” “Oh great. A cannon, huh. What good is that going to do against our Huge Black Friend down south? Shoot bolts of power?” “It might.” Be something worse yet. The warm spell faded out in soft gloomy rain. Veteran’s Day was clear and brisk, with strong winds. As evening drew down, so did the cold, falling inexorably to frost point. Showers of snow mingled with rain. The day after was harsh and clear, a low winter sun skimming far down in the southern sky. Down through the woods from Indian Meadow walked a stooped figure, a thin but sturdy man draped in a great billowing cloak of stone grey over his coat. His hair was bronze-red, but grey hairs streaked it here and there, and his face was sharp and hard as if chiselled out of rock, brows furrowed and face lined even when relaxed: lines of pain and not of age. He strode up through a narrow gap of woods between houses, oblivious of barking dogs. A rambling red house lay behind a big stone wall on the left, and the old maples growing by it had shed prodigiously large portions of themselves all over the lawn and even on the house. A man cutting them up with a chain saw came over and shouted, “Hey, you! Guy in the funny coat! I’m talkin’ to you!” Slowly the cloaked figure halted. Slowly he turned his head. Brilliant eyes like deep-set flames burned in a sharp hollow face. “What do you think you’re doing walking right through my woods?! And may I ask what the funny get-up is for? It’s not Halloween, buster!” Still the piercing eyes stared at him, and the man with the chain saw felt his righteous outrage suddenly crumble into fear. “Get away from me!” he shouted, backing off. “Just get out of here, or I’ll set my dogs on you!” “I hate dogs.” the man in the cloak said. His voice was very low-pitched and harsh. “And human dogs more. Set either upon me….and blood flows.” Without waiting for an answer he stalked on up the slope. Barking sounded and then the owner’s voice urging them on. Crashing feet in the leaves. Happy horrid panting of dogs doing what they love best: attacking something helpless. The chain-saw guy was watching. He wouldn’t let them actually bite the creep; just scare him a bit, maybe chase him. The creep was turning around again. Was he seeing things, or were those eyes…red? The dogs skidded to a stop. Unbelieving the owner watched as both animals crouched, whimpering, staring up into the burning eyes. “''Die.” the man said. Just like that both dogs keeled over and went limp. The man turned and stalked on over the bank. The great cloak billowed out around him in every gust of wind. The man with the chain saw watched fearfully as he sprang lightly down to the road, turning south toward Winsted. Somehow the thought of calling the police never even entered his head. So he passed down the road out of the north, and in their yards folk stopped their cleaning up or leaf raking and stared after him in wonder, and not a little fear. One or two reached for their phones, and hesitated. A girl was strolling down the road, cute and tidy in jeans and fur-edged hat, gabbing away into her cell phone. She was walking in the same direction as he, but far slower. The cloaked figure veered out into the road and passed her, as steadily as a gliding ghost; a powerful aroma of wood smoke and bacon drifted in his wake, pleasant and pungent and earthy. She went stiff, the phone dropping from her hand, gazing after him as if transfixed. “Fanny? Fanny, are you there?” the phone said faintly. The girl paid it no heed. She began to walk faster, as if mesmerized, unable to take her eyes off the majestic, frightening man walking in front of her. She felt like she was stuck through with an arrow. At the very least she wanted to see his face. He never looked back, but his own stride was so rapid the girl felt her legs might drop off by the time they had gone half a mile. She kept at it, with a tenacity she had never shown before in anything, whether in schoolwork (“Aw, who cares, they pass you anyway”) or in chores (“I need a break…I’ll get back to it later”) or in romance (“Mm….maybe…I’m more of a floating type”). Still, despite her breaking into jogs now and then, he was a good six hundred feet away when they reached Rt 44 at the edge of Winsted. To her dismay he crossed the street, striding up the old loop of pavement branching off the road, and vanished in the woods. Breaking into a real run—which soon petered out to a jog—the girl reached the highway and dashed across. She was sure he had gone into the ruin across the river, but when she got to the bridge she saw to her horror that the boards across the gap were gone, and she would have to balance on a narrow metal girder. Her nerve failing her, she clambered back through the downed trees blocking the way and headed up into the hemlock cutting where the old road ran. She never had bothered wondering where that road went or what it had been. Maybe that creepy old tramp wasn’t there now. Maybe the mysterious man was camping there instead. The thought made a delicious sweat break over her. She climbed up onto the path that ran down to the river. The tents were crushed by unmelted snow and showed no signs of use. Leaves hid the path, but she remembered well enough where it led and scrambled down it—softly, for she heard the faint echo of male voices-- until she reached the deep rockpool and swimming hole. She didn’t even see him until she was almost on top of him, standing like an erect stone at the water’s verge. She came to a panicked halt and ducked behind a tree. He hadn’t even heard her: he was staring at a medium-size lump of rock sitting on a ledge across the stream, staring so hard she expected to see holes melting into it. Abruptly he spun around and leaped over the black stones. Beside the swimming hole was an immense boulder islanded in the river. He reached this in a bound, and, cloak dangling fantastically, caught a low limb and pulled himself across, hand over hand. She almost squealed with sheer admiration. Scrambling over the rocks he came to the one he’d been staring at, and now bent his stare down into the water. “I can see into the bottom,” he muttered all of a sudden, “but the River I cannot pierce. I cannot stir him. He is not under my power.” What was he talking about? She felt dizzy, as if on the edge of hearing something unfathomable, some secret that would shatter the world. Her god on the far bank drew himself erect. For the first time she saw his eyes directly, and had to restrain a gasp. They were the brightest eyes she’d ever seen. She was drawn by them, fascinated, and yet at the same time frightened as one might be of a horse, because it is so wonderful, and so large and scary up close. Then she realized they weren’t just bright, they were gleaming, they were shedding light like red candles; and his hands were flickering red, and he lifted them flat and then, stooping powerfully, slammed them down upon the earth, and as he did he roared, ''“Brooookke!” Red fire leaped up from the ground. The solid earth rippled under her like water: it made her queasy. She wanted to run, but she did not dare, she felt weak as spaghetti, she had wanted to see and now she saw, for good or ill, she was trapped until the end of this. Then she became aware a girl stood beside him, dark-gold hair, a rather nice merry sort of face, with startlingly bright pale blue eyes; and she was not wearing a coat. “What the…? You! What on earth? How are you feeling? How did you do that?” the girl spluttered. “I called you.” he said. “You came.” “You mean you can just…''call'' us at '' will''?! What if I’d been in the bathroom? I didn’t even have time to grab a coat! I suppose you can send me back, can’t you?” The man draped his cloak around her, pulling it over his head in a graceful gesture. Fanny felt so jealous she wanted to explode. “You made me leader. Arheled confirmed it. And if I am in need, I must be able to call those who follow me.” “A cell phone would be simpler!” '' Arheled? Who or what was that? And why did that name shiver through her like doom? '' “I need you, not your voice. I can see through the ground; but I cannot see through Daslenga.” “What do you want me to do?” “Send him around this place.” the man answered. “Remove all of him from the pool. It is here. The rock tells me that.” “Yes, how did you know? I spotted that myself the other day and wished I could tell you.” “You did.” he answered. “In the house of Arheled one sees far and hears much. I heard you. And I know where to look.” The girl’s face went blank. She held out one hand. Greeny-brown light grew in her eyes: it reminded Fanny of water. Then suddenly she shouted, in a voice deeper and rougher than her own, “''Daslenga, remove!” As Fanny stared, cold racing through her very bones, the river rose. It was as if some unseen force was neatly peeling back the water in one piece, like wax that has been poured over clay. It mounted slowly into the air, a huge cord of rushing fluid ten feet thick, cascading down into its’ bed below the swimming hole, and the rock pools were dry as bone. The man turned his scarlet stare upon the riverbed. So bright were his eyes they shed a halo of light, like a glowing fog, around his head. “''There.” he said. “Should I, like, drill it out or something?” said the girl. “Keep Daslenga busy, and leave it up to me. Have you forgotten that I am the Hill of the Road? The earth answers to me, as water does to you.” Rocks began to shudder. Gravel and stones flew up in fountains. With a grinding groan immense rocks rose slowly out of the hole, to crash with deep thuds to one side. Up out of the hole something else rose, something crusted with huge rusty growths of corrosion, something long and narrow and hollow. It came to rest on the shore. The man’s hands flashed as he slammed them on the earth, and rocks and gravel fell back in the hole. The cord’s end rushed overhead and plunged into the riverbed, and a second later the water returned, splashing and shouting as before. Both of them laid their hands upon the object, and rust flew in showers of shrapnel in every direction. One struck Fanny and she screamed. She clamped her hands over her mouth. Both of them were staring at her. She wanted to run but she could not, and didn’t want to, and she was scared stiff, and she was filled with awe, and she did not move. “Are you all right?” the man said. There was a gentleness in his voice, but it was a voice of authority, and it did not unbend. “Oh dear, I think she’s about to seriously freak.” said the girl. “Honey, it’s all right. We didn’t see you.” “Are you hurt?” the man repeated, patiently. Those eyes she had wanted to meet more than anything in the world, they were gazing at her, not bright and terrible but still sharp, and she felt somehow the weird sliding dizziness she got when drawn into a really good and really strange movie. She managed to stand up. “Um, hi.” she quavered with a nervous giggle, relieved that her voice worked. “I’m Fanny.” “No, you are not.” the man answered. “A name like that is always short for something. What is yours short for?” “Oh, I don’t know, probably something silly like Fanwell or Fanta.” she giggled. “Or Fand.” the man said. Strange feelings stirred in her at that name: it rang, and yet had a depth of unheard echoes, like the sound of countless things forgotten. “Fand.” she whispered. “It means in the Irish, A tear that passes over the fire of the eye. Tearfire. Teargleam, perhaps, is even better. Names always mean something somewhere, in some time or language unknown. I am Ronnie. This is Brooke. We are delighted to meet you.” “Um, yeah, same here, um, wow, that is all so totally awesome. Um, how—what was—all that?” “That I will not tell you.” said Ronnie. “No, Brooke, not a word. She cannot comprehend it yet—if ever. We are not like them now. We stand above them like gods, burdened with power and wisdom, unsure of dispensment. Still, the fact that she remains without fleeing and is moved by ‘Fand’—she has the seed of seeing, I think. She cannot see yet. Tell me, Fand, why did you follow me?” “But I—I thought you never saw me!” “Answer.” She turned red as a beet and looked at the ground. “Don’t look at me!” she giggled. “I’m getting all red!—I don’t know. I guess, with that cloak, you looked all…well…” A sudden unreasonable urge came over her, and she added wickedly, “Is Brooke your girlfriend?” A sort of subterranean earthquake tremor passed beneath Ronnie’s features, though they did not move. Raw, burning pain flashed for an instant in those fiery eyes before just as swiftly passing. “No.” he answered. “My girlfriend died.” “Oh my gosh. I’m so sorry. Um—how—what is that thing, anyway?” she said hurriedly, to change the subject. “Come across and look, if you wish.” said Ronnie. The river stopped flowing in one spot, the water flowed away while the upstream water backed up, and Fand crossed as quickly as she could. When she had scrambled up on the rocks Brooke let the river go. Carefully Fand made her way around the lagoon until she stood beside them. “H-hello.” she said breathlessly to Ronnie. He wasn’t as tall as he had seemed, almost on eye level with her, but up close he was—intoxicating. His presence seemed to fill the air around him, huge and male and threatening and exciting at the same time. Like a magnetic field or something. “Hello and welcome.” he said with a slight smile. There was both amusement and kindness in that look, though she felt somehow he was laughing at her, or perhaps at himself. Then she looked down at the object. Freed of rust, it was revealed to be nothing more or less than a long cannon barrel. At least, it had the shape and size of one, but with the rust gone—ad with it the shell of iron that had encased it and concealed it from the eyes of all who used it—she began to realize it was something very different. The metal was not oily dark-blue and rough, as iron should be when rust is broken off it: the cannon was of a strange black metal, that shone with a flat luster, and odd curves and seams could be made out along the bore, and deep strange letter were cut in long flowing script in curving lines winding around the barrel. “What is this?” she whispered. “The lost Cannon of Winsted.” said Ronnie. “Ask Verna the library historian to let you read the town annals: it’s in there, eventually. But this is not really a cannon. I do not know '' what'' it is. All I know is what the tehta say, and they are cryptic indeed.” “Wait—you can actually '' read'' these things? I thought it was decoration.” “So, Ronnie, what is it then, really?” said Brooke. Fand found she could not meet his eyes. They were terrible again, stern, powerful, penetrating. “It is the last weapon from the Tower of the Tree. One of 400 that were forged in the power of the Stars by Men of Numenor by the waters of the Long Lake, in the last years of the Second Age of Middle-earth. For there was league between the Tower and the Stars, and Arheled blessed these weapons, and put the Road upon them.” Her blood chill in her veins, Fand listened. “Can we go home now?” shivered Brooke, Ronnie’s cloak pulled tight around her. “Or are you going to call Travel and hope she’s presentable?” “I agree I would rather risk sending you myself.” Ronnie concurred wryly. He turned to Fanny. “Goodbye, Fand. I am glad we met. Do not forget us…and do not let anyone call you '' Fanny.” Red fire leaped up. Earth rippled like water. Both he, Brooke, and the cannon were gone. “Hey, Ronnie, I heard you were back.” said Travel into her phone when he returned her call. “You all right?” “Get over here.” he said and hung up. When Travel teleported over to Burrville, Ronnie was standing in his yard. At least, it had to be Ronnie; the grim cloak-shrouded man, grey in his red hair, sharp hollow face lined and hard, looked little like the old Ronnie she remembered. “Oh gosh.” she whispered. “What happened to you?” “I grew old.” he answered. “You’re only 31.” “No.” Ronnie said. “I am much older than that. A hundred and thirty-one would be more like it. You have no conception, happy child, of the places I have walked. Even Beren was grey-haired when he came out.” “So, why did you call me over again?” “We found the Cannon.” said Ronnie. “Really? Oh, did you ever look up those funny backward Ns?” “I did.” said Ronnie grimly. “Anglo-saxon rune like a backward N, long stem above and below: used in magic to represent the sun or the life force. Derived from a Phonecian rune ‘nun’, meaning snake or fish.” “Another fish.” said Travel. “Fish Quarry, a fish in the Milky Way…why exactly is a fish the sign of the Road again?” “I took it as a sign of the Flat World that was, with the earth upheld on the Outer Sea. If it has another meaning, I do not see it.” “That’s good, in a way.” Travel commented. “I was afraid we’d be off on another insane Nine Hills chase with more lunatic clues and wild stretches.” “I had an idea, though.” said Ronnie. “What if the Herald’s-arrow riddle was compass directions? North from Fish Quarry to something serpentine?” “''Past the snake.” “Past the Eye '' of the Snake. I think that means something in the landscape.” “And the sun—what’s with that?” Ronnie shrugged. “Who knows. It could be just a dead end. I need a map.” “I thought you were banned from the library.” A terrible smile came over Ronnie’s face. “That was before I fully became the Hill.” “Oh please, Ronnie, don’t go tormenting the librarians. It’s not like they all turned into witches.” A slight smile, more a tightening of his lips than anything, crossed Ronnie’s grim face. “At your plea the librarians are spared, friend Travel.” he said, almost mockingly. “You sound like Wild.” Lara Midwinter lay on her bed, motionless. The window was open and the room was cold. Colder even than outside. It was far too warm out, disgustingly warm. November was supposed to be cold. Not balmy. And she wanted it to be cold. Her sister was dead. Her sister was worse than dead. Her sister was consumed, body and soul. It felt like a stomach cramp in her heart: dull, aching, unbearable pain. Even when she embraced the Cold it did not help. Or not much. Mrs. Midwinter didn’t believe her. Didn’t think Lilac was dead. Lara lay on her bed, alone, rigid. She could not talk to her brothers. She could not endure them. As McDonald’s had fired her for absenteeism, she had no job, nothing to distract her. It wasn’t grief anymore. She simply lay there and suffered. Prayer tasted flat. To even form the words took an effort of unimaginable proportions. God had not intervened. God had not stepped in to stop the Lord of Chaos’ rising. “It’s God’s Will.” the priest had said. She bit off the acrid rejoinder in her mind: ''If you allow evil to happen, you are complicit. Why did that apply to humans but not to God? She stopped that train of thought with a shudder. If she had no God to believe in, to whom would she turn? Who was there else to hear the cries that she sent out of the depths? To whom could she offer her pain, as she tried to do every other minute? '' Sorrow. Sorrow. Suffer. Suffering. '' Twin swords, two terrible blades. Dolorus and Passus. Sorrow and Suffer. One huge and heavy, the other thin and deadly as a rapier. They floated in her mind, her tormented mind, and the pain gnawed endlessly. Relief. Respite. That was all she wanted. Numbness. Unconsciously she rose to her feet. She stood at the window and lifted her head. Cold and blue the moon, the dead world of airless stone, shield of the Dark Lord against the fury of the Valar, shone down upon her and spoke cold into her. The sight was eerie and awful, yet soothing; the numbness she longed for. '' '' ''Wander, wander neath the clear '' ''And chilling light of Moon… '' ''Heartless, heartless lovely maid '' ''So far and yet so cruel… '' “I cannot sleep, I cannot eat.” Lara said as one in a trance, the words flowing unbidden from her mouth. “I cannot think or even pray. Numbness, numb eludeth me, cold of mind and soul; shine, o shine upon me maid, cold maiden of the moon….come down into me, moonlight cold, breathe chill into my soul…” The room grew slowly brighter. Turning her head Lara saw, standing in the moonlight, a woman of moonlight. Luminous was she, chill and blue-white, beautiful as a marble statue. She wore a strange graceful gown that sagged from bare shoulders and laid open one white breast, pointed and cold, in a dreary mockery of modesty. On her back was a quiver. In her hand was a bow. “Who are you?” said Lara. Her voice hung in the chill air, toneless and lifeless. “Why, I believe you called to me, child, did you not?” the woman said with a faint but lovely smile. “I am the moon. I am the daughter of heaven. I hunt the stars. I am the Goddess. I am Diana.” Lara said nothing. “You have called to me.” Diana said, her heatless silver voice faintly mocking, hauntingly beautiful. “I have come. What is it you want of me?” “I hurt.” said Lara. “You are the Cold, and yet you cannot summon it into your own heart?” “It will not.” “Perhaps I can do something about that.” the woman of the moon said softly. “There will, of course, be a…recompense…I am not a free service, you know.” “What?” “Let me walk in you.” said Diana. “I feel the arising of my ancient foe I cannot battle him from the Moon. I must be here. Yet I bound myself to it, and when its’ light is hidden I will snap back to it; unless an earthly body anchors me.” “I will remain myself?” The Moon flapped her hand. “Relax. I am no demon, that I should possess you. I will walk inside you, and see what you see; that is all. You will, of course, receive great…power….from me. Far more than what you wield.” Lara slowly opened her arms. “Come.” Back to Arheled